White Feather and Red Poppy
by palomino333
Summary: Within the ethereal sanctuary of Purgatory, Elliot Spencer is at last given the lucidity to reflect upon his dual lives as an officer for king and country, and as a much-favored demon of the Leviathan. Whether such self-discovery is enough to prove victorious in his private war with his unfettered counterpart, and to warrant his redemption, is uncertain to even his tactical mind.


It's been a long time since I have written a chapter fanfiction. What I wish to do differently about this one, however, is the handling of its plot. I wish to make this a character study of the character who I feel was not as well explored as he could have been in the series: Captain Spencer. Hence, with this current chapter as an example, parts of the story will be written in a stream of consciousness format. While I refuse to apologize for any graphic content that will make its way into this story, given the subject manner that was involved with his rather deviant lifestyle, I will apologize if I have taken too much liberty in terms of historical subject matter. If I have written something that is historically inaccurate, or inaccurate to the lore of Hellraiser, feel free to alert me to such, and I will gladly correct it.

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What was Hell?

Was it the vicious Battle of the Somme? Gunfire rippled, and the roar of the mortars pounded endlessly, the smoke lit in ghastly yellows and crimsons. Screams of hysteria tore through the night air as grown men fell back into childhood, the losses of their friends, now strung on barbed wire like demented scarecrows, pushing them over the edge. Animalistic growls of rage tore through the angered ones, the bayonets of their rifles skewering the bastard Bosch in a primal act of vengeance. Blood soaked onto once-well pressed and clean uniforms that were now askew, torn, and caked in dirt. The rats fed well on their carrion in the trenches, be it from the stale rations, or the open wound of a man's leg.

Was it that irrevocable void that followed the Great War? The word "armistice" was hollow to Captain Spencer as he looked back upon his "heroic" ventures. "There, there," was uttered to him as society attempted to fall back into its regular routine, brick by brick picked up, and the bodies of the dead laid to rest where flowers would grow over them in the spring. It meant utterly nothing to him, the glory, the recognition, or the idolization when the funeral rites were read.

So decadence began to beckon to him, and Elliot was appalled by the gesture. How could he dare to take it while others lay beneath the earth? None of those men would again experience the pleasure of the drink, a kiss, a dance...Yet it carved at him over time, peeling away the layers of pomp and circumstance that were associated so strongly with his rank. "Captain" was a title that rung hollow to him. How could an officer live with shame of so losing so many of his men? He could justify it with facts, the most obvious being that he wasn't the only officer to lose that high a number, but the justification in itself was hollow. His platoon had been his responsibility, and if anything, it was an era of his life that he wished to bury and leave behind.

Yet, it. Wouldn't. Rest. Family and friends would praise his bravery in war, while acquaintances referred to him endearingly his rank. Perhaps the most disgusting was when his sister's children would cling to him, and beg for stories of his experiences whenever their uncle happened to stop by. He'd always dismiss them with pats on the head, and the phrase of "when you're older."

On the other hand, there was a darker side to what his proud country had become. The heavy loss endured in the war was felt by the subjects of the dead being dodged in conversation, and the greatly reduced male population, most seen in the profound lower numbers of young males courting women of their age, and working to support their families.

All the same, however, Spencer simply couldn't bring himself to leave the military life. He rationalized his continuation to wear the guise of an officer easily. After all, a man needed a job in the aftermath of the war, and it would be foolish to throw away such an opportunity that he already possessed. It was a "job." Ha! Elliot saw the fool he was making of himself in the mirror each day as he bought into that pass he had written for himself. How could he simply dismiss it as such, after all that he had seen, endured, and done?

Blood had literally been on his hands, his rifle and bayonet taking the lives of men bearing very little difference from him, save for in uniform and tongue. Eyes, stretched wide at the pain of the blade being lodged in a stomach, stared back at him, his shadow cast over the lens. Hands grasped at him vainly in an attempt to drive this madman, this monster, away. Once when his uniform sleeve was seized, it was torn roughly, exposing the dirtied skin underneath. Showers, of course, were an unknown in the trenches.

He'd bled from the nail of the dying man catching on his arm, tearing open the skin to create a gash. Sewing up the sleeve was purely cosmetic, but the bandage that had been placed on the wound afterwards did little to calm Elliot; infection simply loved to rear its ugly head. He'd hid the wound by tying a strip of cloth around the sleeve. He couldn't allow the spirits of his men to fall.

But in this peace, Spencer could view it fully, the jagged white scar that sliced down his darker skin. It was such a strange piece, a souvenir from a dirty and dank environment that was alienated in a realm of clean floors, running water, and wood polish. If anything, he himself felt like an oddity, but that was saying little.

Reconnection? Out of the question. What exactly would he speak with his still-living men about? Let alone the fact that little such tales, good or bad were proper conversation in this alien land, the shift in power dynamics between them was too immense. He had been their captain. They had been his subordinates. Now, however? A few had gone back to school. Husbands were returning to their waiting wives (and mistress, in some cases), while others were returning to empty homes, their wives having absconded with other men. A lawyer here, a doctor there, a few businessmen…And here he was, a fossil in comparison that still wore the colors.

"Sir Spencer," joked a student, Mathers, at his attitude. The boy fell a week later, knocked onto his side by a shell explosion, his left leg and arm broken, and the side of his head bleeding. And that knight he had designated? He was busy leading a charge further into that inferno, while dirt rained upon the stumbling forms of himself and the troops behind him.

The bravado and machismo of the battlefield had faded away to be replaced by desks and papers for the time being. It was monotonous, but a break for adjustment.

"You really should find yourself a wife, Elliot," his father remarked to him one night as he opened his rather-worn tinderbox to prepare his pipe.

"Perhaps that could wait," he suggested in response, staring out the window over the streets below. The cream-colored curtains hung limply around the pane, in a way creating a portal to the dark world beyond.

"Nonsense," he replied gruffly, the smell of tobacco hitting the air, "We have had this discussion with the same result before you left with the Army."

"How does that make this different?" He responded simply, half-heartedly watching a man stopping beneath a streetlight to check his watch. Turning back to look at his sire, who was sitting rather stately in his chair closest to the fire, young Spencer continued, "Sarah has already found a husband, and Matthew is betrothed. The family name will continue, at the very least, as will our bloodline."

The patriarch placed his thin-skinned hand over the gold-painted top of his cane, the shaft black. "This is not about the family name, Elliot. You need someone to care for you. Do you not think that your mother and I worry over you, living alone in that small apartment of yours?"

With a slight smile, the Captain folded his hands behind his back. "With all due respect, sir, I do not think that is an issue." His sire placed his pipe thoughtfully in his mouth for a moment, and Elliot couldn't help but feel self-conscious. What did he want from him?

Bluish smoke emitted from it was the elderly man stood, grasping his cane for support. He moved in a brittle manner toward the mantelpiece, the pronounced limp in his right leg significantly slowing him down. Stopping before the fireplace, its flames casting writhing shadows over the floor, he took his pipe back out of his mouth to hold in his free hand. Standing directly before his vision was a sterling silver candelabra. Standing directly over it was an oil painting of a rather smartly-dressed officer in red of yesteryear, a saber at his side, and epaulettes on his shoulders. A coal black moustache, combed out neatly, was on his face, to which its viewer provided a contrast with a silver one. "Your grandfather would be proud to see you now," he said more to himself before turning back to face his son, "As am I. But now, the time of war has passed. You need to settle down."

"Father," he came toward him, his voice slightly rising, "Please, understand, this is only temporary. Once I receive a better employment opportunity in the future, I will leave the military." He said nothing in response, and young Spencer smiled. "Although it flatters me to hear that I have done him proud."

The cane thumped once on the floor. "My child, I expected nothing less of you. It is in our blood. Still, what I fear is that you may follow him too closely."

Elliot swallowed. "You fear I will be killed, do you?"

Placing his pipe aside on the mantle, he replied sternly, "I have lost my father before me to war. I dare not lose my first born, as well." He grasped the head of the cane with both hands, he leaned forward, his back bending slightly, and his hands shaking. "Elliot, promise me I have not done you a disservice."

The Captain was across the floor in a few strides, grasping his father under the shoulder. "Come on, let's get you back to your chair." Labored breaths were taken by the elderly man, his footsteps shuffling over the carpet, and the cane thumping softly. His left hand gripped Elliot's arm for dear life, while the right gripped the head of the cane fiercely. With a groan, he was settled back in, releasing the cane for it to fall a short distance into Elliot's hand.

He propped the cane up against the side of the chair again for his sire, and returned to the mantelpiece to retrieve his father's pipe. The white handle was worn, and demonstrated a sheer amount of use, as well as abuse, over time. Rub marks from a cloth that was vigorously implemented in cleaning his finger prints and smudge marks off of the handle showed easily, the black bowl filled with burned tobacco leaves. Cupping the bowl in his hand, he brought it over to his father, who gingerly took it from him. "Thank you." The pipe shook slightly in his hand, but it was quickly steadied as he brought it to his mouth to take a few shallow puffs on it. Removing it once more to place on the arm of the chair, he elaborated, "I fear that I pushed you too hard into the service."

"Father, stop," Elliot reprimanded sharply, drawing himself up to his full height, "You did not. As you said, it's in our blood to serve king and country. Even if it had not been, I couldn't bear the thought of remaining here while others lost their lives in the Great War."

"You need not speak with me in that tone of voice," his sire responded in an even tone, sitting up, "Place yourself at ease." Young Spencer relaxed with a curt apology. "While you are under my roof, you will remember your place," he continued, his voice taking on an icy tone, "You give me your word that you will not return to this house in that uniform again."

In a moment that Elliot found strange, he felt ready to shout back at this old fool, and vehemently deny his request. He had worn the uniform out of sheer formality tonight, and even that had been flung back in his face. However, when he opened his mouth, he replied simply, "Certainly, sir," and changed the subject to a happier topic.

He kept his sire's contract well, although with careful manipulation of its loophole. While he wore the guise of a civilian man in the presence of his family, he retained his role as acting Captain. That was not to say it was a double life; his elders and siblings were well aware of it. The new recruits were green and undisciplined, as well as haughty. They were barely older than school boys, thankfully having been too young to have experienced the horrors of the Great War. The questions they presented Elliot with about his time in the service during such a dark period, as well as their constant nagging for an answer, drove him mad. It wasn't much help that those who had also served during the same period of time as he had either settled for an honorable discharge, or were too wounded and jaded to speak about it. Not that he was considering instigating such a conversation, but the silence was strangulating.

It was no wonder, then, that he found himself in that seedy bar. The swill was dark in its glass. It swished around softly as he tilted it. He didn't consider himself much of a drinker, although the occasional few glasses with company were rather appreciated. A few jibes were told, and greatly exaggerated tales of a man's life were woven across the table. This was simply not one of those occasions. The alcohol's bitter taste gave off a slight burning sensation. He squinted his eyes shut for a moment against it with a slight shake of the head.

Thankfully, his table was off to the side, out of the main view of the bar. The beverage in question was substantially stronger than was Elliot's typical taste. Considering tonight was a bit of a "celebration," he had every right to be venturous. Still, being called a lightweight was not something that he would like to endure that evening. A celebration of what, exactly? Victory? Standing upon a barren expanse of land, he hadn't felt a victory, and simply did not feel one now in this sparsely populated pub. Well, perhaps there was one. He did manage to save a handful of them. Yes, yes! Elliot clung to that hope as he took another drink of the stuff, this time taking more down his throat.

The glass thumped down on the table, causing the drink to splash up slightly. Who was he fooling? That didn't bring back those who hadn't made it. He cursed his arrogance as a rather raucous laugh emitted from the pub. Blockheads, the lot of them there, although he was among their company tonight. Perhaps that was the wrong term, for he drew further into himself in shame, keeping further out of sight. A young man, who sported a scab on the left side of his face from a mishap with a razor blade, turned slightly on his bar stool to cast a curious glance at him. Elliot gave a communal wave, and the gaze was averted. No, this wasn't company; this was too cold. Company, as he knew it, was far, far more intimate than these workmen here would like to know.

He threw the burning alcohol down his throat as the past ghosted to them through the acrid cloud of cigarette and cigar smoke. Huddled low within the closed confines of a dark trench, his men kept their heads bowed against the shower of rocks and dirt. Whispers and whimpers were formed between them, although the latter was quickly silenced with a punch or a kick. Mud and grime that had been caked upon them for weeks added an earthly undertone to the sheer stench of body odor, blood, vomit, shit, and piss.

"What's wrong with him?" Captain Spencer inquired before ducking slightly, his eyes squinted, and his gloved hand splayed over his head as a rather harsh explosion from the ground above sent down a heavy shower upon his shoulders. His tone was harsher than he had first intended, having already screamed himself hoarse. He coughed as dirt and dust found its way into his mouth.

"Can't say, sir. He's been like that for about a minute," the private replied shortly, his voice breathless. The man next to him was curled into a ball, making himself rather tiny. While that was understandable, considering the rather close quarters of the trench itself, the fact that the young man was staring off into nothing, and rocking slightly, his teeth chattering, indicated that something was quite off about him.

Reaching out, the Captain grasped his shoulder, but the grunt did not so much as move his eyes toward the hand. "Private Blackwood!" His eyes moved to him, but he gave no further acknowledgment. Elliot raised his voice slightly as he shook him harder this time, the gravelly undertone of it taking over. "Private Blackwood, answer me!" Blackwood's comrade nudged him roughly in the ribs, a motion which Elliot admonished him with a wave of the hand. The inanimate man continued to stare back at his commanding officer, or rather, through him, his mouth gaping open and closing at intervals, as if he was attempting to form words. His head was tilted slightly to the side as he continued to gawk emptily.

Blackwood's collar was roughly seized by the private beside him, who proceeded to roughly shake him. "Damn it, mate! Snap out of it!" A silver trail of saliva slipped out of the corner of his mouth, dripping down to hang off the side. His eyes focused for a split second, the irises narrowing at his assailant. His head remained turned toward Elliot, his head bobbing. The next second, his hand thumped against his side, his eyes rolling back in his head.

"Enough!" Spencer exclaimed, grasping the hand of the ruffian. Blackwood's head tipped backward, and his body fell down into the glass of alcohol his officer, who was fully intending upon growing quite inebriated, was absent-mindedly trailing his finger around the rim. Cold and dampness met the tip of his finger as it slipped inside, leaving a slight ripple.

A bar stool crashed noisily to the floor with a wordless exclamation of surprise, the splatter of what was probably cheap beer whispering on the floor in the wake of the splintering of a pint. Laughter sounded across the bar top, with an undercurrent of agitated grumbling from the grizzled bartender at the loss of his inventory item. Elliot's altruism prompted him to turn his head to look, his hand promptly releasing his swilled glass, and his other braced upon the table for him to stand. He fell back, however, upon noticing that the burly workman had turned on his side in an attempt to rise, his smoke gray overalls facing the officer against a brick red shirt. A deep grunt came, and his friend's scuffed boot caught the light as it was tapped against his side. "Come on , get up." Elliot sank further against his chair, his one foot propped casually up against the main leg of the table. Feeling at a loss for anything to do, he grasped the glass once more, and tilted his head back to take a long drink.

He gulped and lurched forward at the defensive exclamation of, "I'm bleeding! Can you not see it?!" Elliot's glass thumped back down on the table, his hand flying to his mouth to catch the liquid as it was splattered upon it. He coughed hard, his hands smacking down against the table's wood, his head bowed forward as he wheezed, drops of alcohol and drool landing upon its surface in a sickly-looking film. One of the patrons at the bar noticed his display, and pointed at him as the next entertainment act. Gasping for air, Spencer dropped his foot from the table leg, rattling it slightly and causing the glass to wobble and fall over, the alcohol's remains spilling out before the vessel too rolled and shattered upon contact with the floor.

"Oi!" The bartender's exclamation was of little importance to Elliot, who had already decided that he would pay for the damage. His target was the hand that was raised to the light, the lower right of its palm deeply cut by the small shard of glass that stuck into it. Crimson dripped down from it, staining the jaggedly-cut tanned and calloused skin, tinted a slight pinkish-red already from the sheer irritation.

"Is he all— t" Elliot was cut off as his shoulder was roughly grasped, forcing him to turn, and look into the bearded face of the man who had been taunting him for his little mishap earlier.

"Ah, I see he's come to join us," the patron observed as Spencer struggled against his rough grip, attempting to break free with minimal effort. He reflexively wrinkled his nose at the nauseating fumes that emitted from his captor's breath. He knew quite well that this workman was nothing; he wrestled himself out of far worse, his sheer experience giving him the significant edge.

"No," he replied sternly with another tug back, "Let me go." His efforts merited him a laugh and a taunt. He could feel the eyes of the few other patrons and the bartender on them, the neglected injured man continuing to groan softly in pain on the floor. Elliot nodded down at him. "Please, he needs medical attention, stitches, I would gather." His teeth gritted in pain as the grip on him intensified. His voice was mocked in a high-pitched tone by two of the men who had stood to surround him. The bartender exclaimed for them to sit down, his rag smacking down on the countertop, but there was little heed paid.

Another hand latched onto Elliot's opposite shoulder, and he drew a quick breath through his nostrils. Driving his knee up against the crotch of the first man, he caused him to cry out in pain, and release the strength that held the Captain in place. A vulgar exclamation met his ears as he grasped the arm of the man standing before him in the crook of his own, and twisted it painfully to the side. A right hook swung sharply toward Elliot, and he immediately let go, turning slightly to back away from the cluster of three men, one of whom was currently cradling his arm. Spencer's fists clenched and unclenched at his sides as he mentally strangled his conscience, which was screaming at him to stop, reconsider, and back away; this was not a way an officer and a gentleman acted. Yet, he couldn't help it; he felt so alive, the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

The bartender's exclamation snapped him out of it. "Take it outside if you're going to be doing that!" Flicking his gaze over, he caught sight of the injured man's good hand grasping the edge of the counter as he tugged himself up, gasping and groaning in pain, the bleeding appendage dangling uselessly by his side. The next moment, Elliot was sent crashing backward into a table, knocking it down to stand vertically up behind him as he landed on his rear end. His back stung from the sudden impact of the table digging it into for a moment, and he breathed hard from the force, his gaze fixed above him at the three figures that loomed over him, shadowed ominously by the lack of light directly above them. He smirked despite himself. Yes, yes, this was rather interesting, a good change from the routine of life he had settled back into. Sweat beaded on the back of his neck as he realized that no one knew where he was.

An anguished exclamation emitted from behind the party of three, who turned to look at their friend. Glancing between their legs, Elliot noticed that the screamer was the wounded man, who cradled his wrist, which was beginning to be covered in blood, as well, the substance dripping to the floor. A napkin was being crudely applied to the injury by the bartender. The group promptly dispersed, Spencer forgotten, although not without the man he himself had injured giving him a parting kick to the abdomen. Elliot doubled forward, clutching at it, as the man who had been wounded by the glass was led by his three fellow patrons, the bartender yelling at them to not come back as the door slammed behind them.

Embarrassed, Spencer refused to look at the bartender as he rose, his abdomen continuing to throb as he uprighted the table. The thumping of coin was muffled as it landed upon paper currency before the bartender, Elliot taking care to keep his head down as he apologized for the damages.

The late November air was crisp as he walked along the street, the throbbing in his back and abdomen dying slowly away with each step. Stopping once, he leaned against the wall, his one elbow braced forward upon it, and the other hand on his forehead, rubbing his temples. Certainly, this was not his desired outcome for this evening, and the humiliation was rather biting. He smirked. And the most unfortunate detail of it all was that he hadn't had nearly enough of the drink to cloud such a memory. It would certainly hurt in the morning, and he would have the memory of it to "appreciate." He pushed himself off of the wall and straightened up. He gasped, his breath forming before him in a short puff. Wind stirred the bottom of his trench coat as he turned the collar up, hunching down into it. He glanced back and forth, the heel of his boot scraping along the concrete, its surface covered with a thin layer of grime, dirt, and litter. Discarded crumbled paper rattled against it as it was blown across the alley in which he stood, the brick walls of the building on each side of him starkly staring at him. A fog horn from the nearby docking area groaned into the night. Footsteps sounded on the road beyond, figures passing under the lights at disjointed intervals. Raucous laughter of drunken men, as well as a few sloppy women who attempted to sound sultry, but rather, had the exact opposite effect, added to the overall chintzy atmosphere.

Elliot's coat tail whipped slightly as he turned the corner in order to leave. As a stranger to this environment, he felt utterly out of place. He was thankful for his footwear; the boots, as opposed to dress shoes, gave him a small sense of familiarity. He was inspecting a foreign territory. The street lamps above cast eerie lights over the place, the lights within pubs and cheap hotels illuminating figures through closed curtains in silhouettes of leisure, a fork raised here, a hand grasped there…Elliot's curiosity caused him to look up higher. He grimaced at his decision when he saw the silhouette of a woman, her hair about her shoulders, standing with her back to him. A male figure materialized behind her, and grasped her hand, yanking her back into the room proper. The violence of the action was heavily implied upon by the jerk back she gave, her hair and figure rippling, at his touch, before disappearing from Elliot's view entirely, the light to the room doused.

Knight that he had been considered, and that he had considered himself once, he felt an inkling to enter that hotel, to break down the door and demand the imprisoned woman's release. His fist clenched once more before releasing to shoot into his pocket, and grasp the pack of cigarettes he had placed there, the pack slipping out of his grab to escape further into the folds of the fabric. He retracted his hand from his pocket to wipe the sweat off on his coat as a drunken peal of laughter rang out from a woman across the street covered in a layer of heavy make-up as she hung like a broken puppet over her two male friends, both of whom, their cheeks red, smiled in her face as they struggled to hold up her weight, her toes dragging on the ground behind her. The Captain's hand found the cigarette box this time, and he pulled it out.

Leaning against a lamp post, its hazy spotlight cast down over him, he tugged out a cigarette before replacing the box. He reached for his lighter in his opposite pocket, but let out a groan as he realized that he had accidentally left it in his apartment, the image of the lighter sitting upon his old mahogany bureau forming in his mind. With a sigh at his lack of light, he turned away, inspecting the scene before him on the road, the sloppy kisses, the laughter, the trash blown about by the night wind…And here he was, a former officer with no company, and no light. He had even been denied the pleasure of the drink for tonight. "Perfect," he muttered to himself, tossing the cigarette at a sewer grate before standing straight to leave his post. His boot scraped against the ground once, as if testing to see that it was stable. He glanced down at his motion, and noticed it was scuffed. Elliot knew his superior officer would have had his hide for that, had he arrived to inspection in such a state.

A finely pressed uniform, however, would only last so long, sullied by mud and filth. Pass inspection for the day before the commander, curl up in burlap at night, with a helmet as a pillow, and the hot breath of a comrade in the face. Any decorations were formed by the blood of a Bosch, his helmeted head drooping. Bringing it up with a hand, Elliot found a pair of bug eyes staring back at him, the gas mask on tight.

A cloud of smoke drew his attention, pulling him back to the debauched street. Following it with his eyes, he found it belonged to a cigarette, and the hand of a rather tiny woman by extension. He wasn't sure if it was due to her small frame that he had not noticed her before, or his being lost in his thoughts. He was willing to wager the latter, considering that he was sure to have not seen her standing there before, her backdrop a pawn shop that had closed for the night. Her skin was pale, her eyes large. Her lips were formed in a sensuous pout, her coat over her shoulders heavy, falling to her knees. Her dark hair was in short curls, her skirt a scandalous length. She placed her cigarette between her lips, knowing full well that he was watching, and released another puff before lowering her hand. "Evening, sir," she greeted softly, her voice slightly rasping.

"Good evening," he greeted in response, glancing off to the side for a moment, "Albeit a tad cold one."

"Certainly," she responded with a slight smile, "You must have somewhere warm to go to, do you not?" Well, she certainly did cut to chase. Elliot wondered if she was having a bad business night, or if he really did look that utterly desperate for any sort of entertainment. If it was the latter, the fact that he had been standing beneath a streetlight did not help matters. As such, he also was not impressed with the rather backhanded way in which she was handling him. He wondered for a moment that her wares must be of a good quality to her clientele, if her customer service was rather poor. Or perhaps she was hiding an abrasion that he could not see under her coat, and she was desperate for his purse.

"Yes," he replied carefully, taking a step toward her, "I do."

Her eyes slightly closed to a half-lidded stance, her head tilted to the side. "Handsome man like you shouldn't be alone tonight."

Elliot was thankful for the slight shadow he had stepped into, as, much to his personal displeasure, he found himself blushing despite the emptiness of her comment. A fortnight past, he had attended his brother's wedding. The bride there had blushed, as well, although that was more out of her sensibilities getting the better of her than much else. Lavinia had been her name, her veil obscuring the fiery color of her hair. Matthew mentioned to Elliot in private that it had felt as if he dug out a diamond from the rough, her mother having passed from birthing complications that had resulted in a rather short childhood for the girl. "If only she had been a little more firm with her sister," Matthew remarked with a sigh as he thought of his fiancé's sibling, "she would have made an excellent wife to a worthy Englishman. A pity, really." The girl in question had become a nurse in the war. The last Lavinia had heard from her, it was in the form of a letter indicating her decision to remain a stranger in a strange land with her lover, a French pilot.

It was the woman who had taken the sister's place as maid of honor who Elliot offered his hand to at the reception, when the guests had fallen to a chaste waltz. It was only customary, considering that he was the best man to his brother. Violet was her name, that one he remembered out of his dancing partners for the day, her powder blue dress whisking across the floor as they danced. He remembered that while one of his other partners was blonde, the rest, including the maid, were brunette. "It pains me to see Lavinia in such a state," Violet murmured sadly, casting her eyes over at her friend. Elliot respectfully slowed their cadence to allow her to have a better look at the bride, who, seated beside her groom, had her eyes closed, and both hands placed, palm down, upon the table. Matthew's one hand covered them as he offered her comforts. "It simply was unfair of her sister to abandon her on such an occasion," Violet prattled on as she was spun away, "Certainly, Captain Spencer, you would not have done so to your brother."

"You must understand that I cannot attest to your praise, although I do appreciate it. Had I fallen in combat, you would be in the arms of another man," he had admonished gently.

"Captain Spencer, I do not believe myself to be in your arms," she remarked coyly, drawing herself out from him.

"My apologies, I was thinking literally. Please, let us finish, for your dear friend and my brother," he prodded, drawing her back.

The side of her lip curled up in a smirk. "Are you certain that you were not attempting to conceal boldness, Captain? Your brother did inform me that you were a bachelor." The harp gently strummed her movements as she was spun outwards by her partner, only to be caught, and drawn back.

Feeling heat building upon his cheeks, much to his chagrin, he responded evenly, "As are you, Miss Tomlin, but I must regret to inform you that you are mistaken. I have little reason to mean such a thing in the short amount of time that we have known each other. To answer your question, however, yes, I am single as you are."

The smirk became cruel as she responded with a triumphant tone as the harp's last notes were strummed free, "I fear that you will not find a remedy for that in me. I will be engaged in the coming month." At that, she released his hands, and gave a slight curtsy, ready to flounce away from him, and return to her flock of gossiping hens.

Elliot bowed in response, although not without striking her with his own barb. Glancing innocently around, he inquired, "Then where is your man? I do not remember him being on the guest list, unless I am mistaken, of course?"

Violet's eyes narrowed, and she drew her skirt back from him in a swift motion. "That is none of your business," she replied sharply, taking off in a huff. As she vanished, it seemed, he was swept up in the gaggle of other girls, the bouquet of dress colors, and the wanton grasps of their hands for a handsome partner. So he would mechanically twirl about an Agnes, a Helen, or a Polly, all the while wearing a broad and winning smile in the women's faces despite the sheer boredom he felt at it, as well as a bit of outrage. Riflemen fell on the battlefield, privates screeched in pain as they were entangled in barbed wire, just so their captain could have a few short dances with pretty but empty girls, and become intoxicated by their heavy perfume as he was by the spirits available at the party.

Elliot cocked his head to the side at this strange lady's words. "The same could be said for a beauty such as yourself."

She chuckled. "You flatter me, sir."

The street and its talk of booze, the finest clothes, and a date for the night fell away from him to be replaced by a smoke-filled room, the tobacco reeking. Boorish laughter and moans resounded from close quarters, the privates giddily awaiting their turns to enjoy the night's entertainment. They had gotten lucky; three girls to choose from, although their states were rather less than ideal, being too old, too heavily-laden with make-up, and too played with already. And in the middle stood her, this little lady, while not a picture of beauty within her current world, a gem in comparison to the trio of hags that Elliot ripped from his memory. Her arm wound around his as he inquired about her price tag.

"Not including expenses of lodging. My home is a little far, love," she cheerfully added, patting his arm softly as he grimaced at that prospect, "Oh come now, it isn't much. You are paying for a lady, after all." She batted her eyes in a coquettish matter, her long lashes fluttering. Spencer, not to be fooled by her diversion, noticed how her fingers were tightening upon his arm. He knew he could easily throw her off, but as it were, they had already begun to walk, and although removing her from his presence would not be as looked-down upon as it would with gentler company, his own sense of chivalry pervaded him. "What's your name?" She inquired softly to break up the monotonous clunks of her shoes and his boots.

"Elliot," he responded in a flat tone, terminating the conversation. He didn't care to ask her name; she could be Lady Jane Gray, and he would much rather tell her to sit down upon a bare table and spread her legs for him, his night having gone awry enough as was. While he would not deign to lower himself to a shabby hotel for the night, the surroundings were still not quite glamorous. Paper and change thumped down upon the lobby's counter, the latter clinking as a frail hand withdrew them. A silver key was placed down between the two parties, and Spencer grasped it quickly up, nudging his partner away as she began to lay her head, the hair upon which was soaked heavily with perfume, upon his shoulder. She laughed at his action.

The flights of stairs turned quickly, one, two, three…The fourth floor was desolate of anyone standing within it, although muffled voices carried as they walked past the doors. A mirror was suspended above a solitary stand that contained a vase with white flowers. The woman on his arm pointed her finger at it, and laughed. "What a darling couple we are!" Elliot, although he quickly refused himself to believe it, did chance a look at the glass. He didn't see the military man that masqueraded as a civilian, a silver key in his hand. He didn't see the strumpet, on display as if she were the belle of the ball. And he most certainly didn't see that weary look in his eyes. Miss Tomlin this, Agnes/Helen/Polly that, it didn't matter, he surmised as his arm was freed for him to work the key in the lock, not when he received little more than a dance for it. His conscience was appalled by his vulgar thoughts, but he strangled it roughly as his frustration from attempting to work the key boiled over. He hadn't had a woman in a longer stretch of time than he would care to actually determine, his mind scrambled enough as was by his minor back pain, as well as his desire for the evening.

The door shut softly, Elliot drawing the latch. A soft thump came as the woman's coat fell to the floor, her lithe body silhouetted for a moment in the weak light that entered the room through the slits of the closed curtains. He slapped the key down upon the nearby bureau, causing her to jump, and turn slightly on her heel in surprise. Wanting to see more of her, he started forward at her gasp, grasping her shoulders, and kissing her roughly. Their attempted copulation resembled more a fight than a dance, with her squeaking and squealing against his grunts as clothing was tugged off to be disposed of with little care to the floor. A few buttons popped, and fabric ripped. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered, given the squeals she was continuing to make as he picked her up, her legs wrapped around his hips, and deposited her down upon the rough cover sheet of the bed, if a passerby would wonder if he was raping the woman.

His clarity of mind was immediately lost as he placed a series of kisses down her neck, his one hand kneading her breast as she moaned his name. His lips brushed over a scar on the side of her neck, and he paused for a moment on it. Her hand slid up his back with a breathless reassurance of, "Don't worry about it." Elliot arched back, his eyes squeezed shut in pain. The woman gasped beneath him.

Letting go of her breast to grasp her hand, and bring it back around before him, he whispered, his voice strained by the pain, "Don't do that." A pregnant silence followed between them, their chests rising and falling. He took note of the hot air around them, and his seeming inability to breathe it in enough, his breaths short. Turning his head to his shoulder, he coughed. As the woman began to whimper beneath him, he, much to his own shock, had half a mind to strike her, and demand she get on her knees before him. It was because of his men that this streetwalker could live such a pitiful existence.

"Pl-please," she whined, the cover rustling as she cringed away from him, her head turned slightly. Her voice was muffled in the fabric as she added, much against her will, "You paid, you do what you want." Her body shook, and Spencer heard a slight sob emanating from her.

And again he was reminded of the three women, the despoiled versions of Agnes, Helen, and Polly, who had taken many a man for the night, or was it the other way around? He wasn't sure. Surely, yes, he needed release, the soreness of his engorged penis making it rather uncomfortable to sit up as he was. And as the pain persisted, he found he hated this tiny woman. Yet, despite it all, he shifted backward, and her head flew up as she watched him in incredulity at his act of rising from the bed, and backing off from her. She continued to lay in shock as Elliot backed further, swallowing hard.

His hand hit the wallpaper, and he felt blindly along it for the plastic form of the light switch. Grasping it between forefinger and thumb, he brought it up. She squinted, shutting her eyes and curling away again, her face finding a hiding place in the palm of her hand. Leaning back against the wall, Spencer properly looked over what had been intended to be his entertainment for the night, and shook his head at it. A scruff of black hair partially covered her lower region, the soft pink flesh beneath it spread out for him. He took note of its slightly red tinge. Scars and scratches were upon her thighs from unnecessary roughness. The impression of a man's teeth marked her left hip, with a bruise upon each wrist. That, at the very least, explained her reaction to his grasp. Her breasts were rather small, the nipples perked. Elliot winced at a bruise upon the nipple of the breast he had not grasped. She was quite thin, with the two more prominent of her ribs outlined against her skin. The scar on the side of her neck stood out prominently.

"Sit up, girl," he commanded sharply.

She quickly obeyed, bringing her hands down on each side of her, her legs unconsciously coming together. The make-up had begun to rub off, the lip salve gone. Her dark eyes followed his movements intently as he cane toward her. Elliot's knees folded as he knelt upon the side of the bed before her, his hand outstretched to cup her chin in his hand. She opened her mouth, but just as immediately shut it, her body shaking. Her teeth clacked together with the movement. "That will be all for tonight, miss," he told her in a decided tone of voice, letting go.

"B-but I," she began, and Elliot cut her off by releasing her chin, and rising quickly.

"Take your clothes from the floor, and kindly leave my presence. You may keep your fee," he stated plainly.

Her hands rose off of the bed to cover the sides of her face, her upper half of her body curling into her lower half as she bit her knee. "I won't repeat myself," Elliot added quietly, drawing her widened eye toward him, "Gather your clothes, and leave the room."

Letting go of her knee, she whispered timidly, "You can't expect me to go out there naked. My clothes are torn."

He raised an eyebrow before sauntering over to his shirt on the floor, and picked it up, holding it out for her to see by the collar. Holes where its buttons had been marred it, and its right sleeve bore a harsh laceration. "You need not be concerned in that department. If your clothing in its current state does not please you, perhaps what your clients gave you can pay for more."

She closed her eyes, dropping her hands. "Please, a few moments."

"Two minutes, that is all that I will allot." His response was simple but cold as he placed one arm through the unruined sleeve.

She lowered her head in supplication. "You are kind, sir."

He'd lost the battle that night, Elliot surmised as he released himself from his memories, the image of the prostitute, bent down upon the cheap bed. He had not known the woman himself, but he had a feeling that he had stumbled upon her version of Hell that night, a routine job becoming an unpredictable atmosphere in which she was completely at the mercy of an unknown stranger.

"But that wasn't it, was it," the Captain murmured to himself, kneading his hands as he stared out at the desolate field, the hordes of bodies that were spilling over the badly cracked and shattered earth. Dropping them, he held the palms of his hands tightly against his sides, "No, of course not." His fist clenched and unclenched at his side once, and paused to tug at the end of his tunic, fixing a wrinkle that bulged it. Fastening his hands together behind his back, he wondered out loud as he paced through the smoke that rose in a ghastly fashion around him, "Perhaps if my night had fared differently, had I not wounded my back, had I drunk in peace, had I not hesitated with that woman, perhaps this not would have happened."

He chuckled to himself at his notion of calling the bridge between his first life as a human, and his second as a demon, a mere "this." He was foolhardy moreso for considering that, had his night gone better, events that had taken years to build, and years more to unfold, would not have occurred, culminating in the fateful opening of the Lament Configuration. That was most relevant to him when he refused to obey his father, although Elliot had first chocked it up to age advancement; his father could not fetter him forever. And yet, his chain had broken to be replaced by a much thicker and more binding one. And his new father had loved him so, the Leviathan showering him with praise, making him the leader of one of the most successful gashes Hell had ever known. Accolades that his grandfather would have dreamed of and beyond, he had amassed in a period that stretched longer than his human lifetime. What were medals and ribbons worth, really, when the only purpose they served was pure decoration? They held nothing to true power and pleasure, the decadence of it all a pure dream. Oh, Elliot knew that he could not say that his time in Leviathan's charge had been an unhappy one for him, but through human eyes…He could curse the existence of his conscience all he pleased, he could deny what he had done as the fault of his own, and rightfully so, his free will having been stripped of him with his opening of the box, but it didn't hide the fact that he had done it—No, Pinhead had done it—No, Pinhead was him—No, he wasn't—No—No—NO!

He collapsed the to the dirt on his knees with a gasp, his fingernails digging into it as he fell forward on his elbows, his cap slightly drooping over his face. Taking a few breaths to steady himself, Elliot carefully rose to one knee, adjusting his cap and brushing off his pant leg. Conduct unbecoming, he thought with disgrace as he glanced about him. No man stirred at his actions, their broken bodies splayed about as decorations. This was an illusion; he knew that, but to dismiss it as just that was utterly foolish. This was his soul's cradle, and the grave of the man he had once been.

He rose fully, continuing to brush dirt off of himself. Retracting his hand, Elliot stared at it. This realm was immaterial to a living man, yet here the dirt was, soiling his hand as if he too were solid, a gentle wind softly blowing on his clothing, and waving out the tattered banners and torn barbed wire at intervals. And yet, something as miniscule as the patch of dirt held such an amazing concept: he was free of his Cenobitic body for a time. His memories of both lives lay within the palm of his hand, his for the viewing, but it was overwhelming to see them all at once. Here he held the coveted gift; he could see his family once more, his men still alive, if he so desired, but he squandered combing through his memories for something that couldn't be changed, as much as he willed it otherwise.

If only it was so easy to truly embrace that fact. Spencer, much akin to a child, withdrew from his memories of the underworld for the time being, although they covered a much larger percentage of his existence. He ran a hand experimentally over his cheek as he had done several times before, reminding himself that the pins were not embedded in his skin as they had once been for decades. His skin was soft now, unblemished, and untarnished, causing him to drop his hand immediately. He let out a sigh as a he gazed around at the remains of his comrades once more, their faces covered in blood, their open eyes rolling, and chunks of their flesh taken completely off. Private Blackwood lay among them, his jaw continuing to gawk open as it did, his body tilted sideways on the ground.

Elliot sighed, turning to stare out into the night sky, its stars hidden thick clouds, and the land beneath it veiled by smoke. "Mr. Blackwood, I see what you are looking into, and I hope you will accept my apologies." The void yawned before him, large and black. The Captain had seen traces of the self he wished to deny from his prologue, the lecher that savaged the harlot, and the brute that had engaged in a brawl. He knew these were mere caricatures of what had actually occurred, but the fact remained that those traces had been borne by him, souvenirs of the Great War. Leviathan had only needed to unlock them, and they had further evolved as eras had passed.

And out there, it reigned, sprung forth from the Pandora's Box Spencer had once clutched so tightly to himself. Fastening his hands once more behind his back, he stared down at the ground in thought. His previous gash was of no use to him, Nikoletta, Laslo, and Mictanleculti having been torn from his grasp, and dispatched to their rest. They were his comrades, after all, and he found it a godsend that none of them would have to suffer through this. He was quick to admonish himself on that judgment. Perhaps he had been too affectionate toward the three. While the nun and the child continued to hold his pardon, the former for her self-imposed misguidance, and the latter for his pure act of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, Elliot's upbringing in terms of the lawful and chivalrous could not afford him to have pity for Laslo, although his company would have been appreciated as much as his compatriots'. He could not sense their energy within this purgatorium, or upon the surface of Earth. The underworld remained a mystery to him, but the Lament Configuration was still close, the hairs rising on the back of his neck as it sat dormant with his secondary self.

He could broker Miss Cotton or Miss Tiffany for help if he so pleased, Elliot knew that, but his own sense of humanity held him back. Had he still retained the skin of his alter ego, he would have been more than willing to force the girls to pay the debt they had taken out upon his gash, but as it stood, the Captain was simply too gentle. Tiffany was immediately omitted, and that was due in no small part to his affection for Mictanleculti, as opposed to her own merit. Spencer had mentally documented the Chatterer's dossier, a result of a child's innocence hopelessly twisted and mutilated by the Leviathan, who had seen him as blank template for an excellent right hand man. He did not wish to continue the experiment with someone as innocent as she, despite what asset she could prove to be with her puzzle-solving skills. Kirsty, likewise, proved to be of little viability in terms of choice. How dare he entangle her in this nightmare once more, when it had already robbed her of a father, a lover, a home, and, quite frankly, any sense of normalcy within her life? He doubted greatly that she had overcome the trauma she had experienced in the Labyrinth. There was, of course, the fact that she had been instrumental in restoring his humanity. Although it greatly frustrated Elliot that Kirsty had had no way of knowing the full extent of the consequences of her action, he could not thank her more for this clarity she had brought forth to him. His gratitude would be in his act of letting her go.

But to seek out another person capable of shouldering the task would be difficult, although there was still time; his darker half continued to sleep. Therein lay the second key to Elliot's success. He admitted it to himself; he was cowardly as they came. Otherwise, the urge to simply turn a blind eye to what was to come, and instead take advantage of his moments of clarity to relive his past, when he was free of this monstrosity, would not have presented itself as it did. His other self would not tempt him with such pleasures, instead inviting him to fall once more. The restraining cuff of morality would be yanked away from him as he would take his place once more upon his high seat in Hell. Any pleasure or any person Elliot could desire, he could have. Kirsty and Tiffany would be his prizes, their flesh ready for the taking, their squeals of pain and groans of pleasure oh so greatly tantalizing. The only defense he could provide against it was desensitization, and that strategy proved a faulty one for several reasons. Even still, for his two ladies, he took one breath, and one last look at the void, before diving back into the pit of his darkest, most indulgent and deprived memories.


End file.
